Santa Maria del Carmine

Here by the church door

A shriveled bat

Has folded his wings

And dreams of dead crepuscular delights,

Bat loves, bat orgies,

Tarantistic flittings through the dark.

O fragrant beggar blinking in the sun,

I will drop three soldi in your hat.

O keen of scent,

You who have found me in my slough,

Not your beak, but your green eyes

Have torn to the center of me.

Ah, but I shall not slake them with a tremor.